Who would you think of?
by RiotingTeddybears
Summary: Michael and Pete High School AU
1. Morning ashes

Waking for school in the morning, I feel as if I'm sleepwalking. My eyes are open, but my mind is still lost in a distant dream which I feel safe in during my slumber, yet can never remember. In my groggy haze, I steal a glance at my beaten alarm clock as I tugged on the same hoodie I have worn for years, and made sure the crumple cigarette package was still safely in my pocket. My clock read fifteen minutes earlier than I needed to leave. Plenty of time to get ready for school. I could brush down the tangled black and burgundy waves of hair, that seemed as wild as the crashing waves of the ocean, however I won't even bother, as brushing it has never been successful before. Trudging through my room, over mountains of dirty clothes, kicking garbage out of my path, I make my way to my smoke hazed mirror, and peer at the array of flawed freckles that nipped at my skin like the cold of winter, and the sickening green orbs for eyes that did not give me clear vision without the assistance of contacts. I squinted and prayed my contact case had somehow returned to my room instead of going missing. Taking a tired sigh, I accepted appearance won't get much better than the mess of my room. It never does. Accepting this as usual, I swipe my books from my dresser, careful not to knock over my lavender ashtray, and look for my school bag. As it falls into my blurry sight, I grab my bulky red school bag, tucked my cigarette pack into the front pocket, and trudge downstairs, and out the busted wooden front door. I then made my way through the snow to the bus stop, without haste.

As usual, I was the last student there, and scrambled onto the daunting yellow bus, finding my seat next to my best friend, saved by his black coat. I waved hi to him, with my crooked smile. Seeing Michael was always the first good thing on long days, and usually the last. Ethan was the kind of boy I aspired to be. Neat and organized, with a feminine, appealing way of writing in cursive, that kept his school notes easily read. As the bus drove us to our destination, I watched him, and took in his appearance. With his flawless fair skin, and pale pink lips, he looked so mature. It was as if he was 22, instead of his true age of 17. His tall, thin stature and soft black curls suited him as well as a crown suited a prince. With soft brown eyes and a gentle smile, Michael was the kind of boy that girls fell in love with.

I am his opposite, much to my dismay. Short and stocky, with caramel skin, blemished by freckles and the effects of horrid teenage years. Ethan never seemed to mind though, that his image may be brought down by his friendship with actually took me under his wing when he introduced me to the Gothic culture, at only the price of my healthy lungs. The only thing I would ever have over Ethan, is my intelligence. I recently received a full paid scholarship to the college of my dreams. That's something no one can ever take away from me. Ethan could be just as well off, if he wasn't so set on being a procrastinator. He's sure that his dangerous game of procrastination won't hurt him since this is our senior year. I hope he doesn't have to learn the hard way. Though I guess he'd never have to. Unlike me, he can afford college without a scholarship.


	2. Boys like me don't get love notes

My mind worked with the power of dark horses. Strong, fast and more powerful than their grace would reveal. My mind ran circles around the tracks of success, leaving others in the dusty darkness. My mind powers through the

tough times and does not stop until the finish line is crossed. Let's just say Michaels mind worked like a sloth does. He worked slowly and without a care in the world as he took drags from the cigarettes he claimed to need.

As we got off the bus and walked through the unclean hallways of our school, we trekked through the herds of uncivil and immature conformist students, making it to our neighboring lockers, only after being slammed into the cold metal lockers by the herd of jocks on multiple occasions. Twisting the clicking rickety lock to the numbers of my combo, I open my locker, that I had used to struggle with back in freshman year. It seemed like it was only yesterday Michael and I walked these halls as freshmen. Unaware of the tough life ahead. As I pull open the door, a neatly folded note flutters to the ground, like a butterfly flying to the soft petals of a flower in a poppy field. Opening the note, my heart flutters with joy but freezes in terror, as my mind registers that this is a love note. Boys like me don't receive love notes.

In dainty swirling cursive letters, feelings were poured out onto this paper. Anonymously, they told me of their heart wrenching desperation to tell me how they truly feel. They plunged knifes of guilt into my heart as they spilled their painful jealousy they had when I was with someone else. The note begs and pleads with me, to meet its writer in the music hallway at eleven, just as it was penned upon the parchment I now hold in my hand.

"You know, Pete," Michael spoke, with a twinge of an awkward edge, breaking me out of my trance, "If you stare at that paper any harder, you'll stare a hole right through it."

I nodded and gave a slight smile. "I'm just a little shocked" I managed to say, as my mind raced faster than prize winning horses."Someone wrote me a love note, and I think I know exactly who it was. They want me to meet them..but it's during class hours."

He seemed to tense up with unease as he nodded to me. "Really? You should go meet them. You've never skipped before. You might as well live a little. Who exactly do you think wrote it?"

With a dumb grin spreading across my face, I tucked the note into my hoodies pocket and closed my locker. " It was definitely mike. He sits behind me in my AP English class and he smiled...he must be love struck by me somehow."

Michael's enthralling happiness faded from his face in a heartbeat. He closed his locker looking defeated and gave a small uncaring nod. "Yeah. He's a genius like you are, you both would be great together" he mumbled. "But if it is him, do you actually care about him? Would he be the first person you think of in an emergency?"

I nod, though I don't really know. Do I care about him, or am I just that desperate to not be alone? "I could. And I hope it's him who wrote it" I stated, and regretted it when I looked up and saw Michael's soft brown eyes welling up with tears.


	3. Addiction

I could see the hurt flash in Michael's dep brown eyes. with darkness and sadness I had never seen in him before. The hurt I saw in his eyes stung more than I could have ever imagined.

"Skip and find out or something then." With that he closed his locker, and strode off to class with a discontent stride.

With a ear piercing tone, the bell for class rang out, echoing into the now empty hallways, where I stand alone, nervously waiting in fear of who I would meet. I begin to pace in the hall, humming to myself as I wish that it could be less quiet. Why isn't he here yet? What if he never comes? What if the note was only catfishing me? Even worse, what if it wasn't? I don't want it to be mike. He wouldn't be thefirst person I think of.

My thoughts continued to eat at me as I slid down the filthy halways wall, sitting across from the rusted lockers. I pulled the crumpled pack of ciggaretes from my hoodie pocket and lit one, taking a drag. I breathe in the familiar toxic fumes, and slowly exhale, allowing the smoke to dance off my lips. Thanks to addiction that michael had forced onto me, it seemed to be the only thing that calmed my anxiety. This was something I need. If I dont have it daily, I begin to feel sick, and shake with anxiety and nausea. If not for this sick confort I become moody and unbearable. It soothes my worries and I longed for it more than air itself. My addiction though, is not to these toxic sticks of chemicals that Gothic culture seemed to worship. It was to him and anything that could remind me of him. I take another drag as I stare straight across from me, focussing too deeply on the patterns rust made on the ever familiar lockers.

Waiting for the writter of the note gave me plenty of time to think. Ciggaraete after ciggarette, I waited. The writer of the note never showed up. It gave me plenty of time to think and reflect on how shock had left me blind. The swift delicate writing on that note could only belong to michael.

As the final bell rang out, i crushed the now empty cigarrete pack, stepping on the dim flickering ashes. The new flickering flames were now in my eyes, rather than on the end of a ciggarete. Each step I took was electric, surging with the energy of adrenaline. A rush that I had gotten from realization.

As i strode onto the bus to go home, I lock my gaze onto michael's eyes and lick my lips, ready for a taste of what Im craving. My beautiful addiction.


	4. graceless colloquy

Sitting next to Michael, I placed my messy school bag on my lap, rather than beside me, to close up the space that usually dwells between us. I didn't want it anymore. I wanted to be close to him. To smell the sweet intoxicating dark chocolate aroma that always mixed in with the scent of cigarettes on his long worn trench coat I want to drink in the view of his soft black curls, and the light shadows they cast upon his face. His cocoa eyes still had a hint of despair. The closer I get to him, the more his thin frame seemed to shift away from me and closer to the shattered bus window instead, as if he wanted to disappear through it into the fog outside. The burst of confidence I had as I strode onto the bust left me, as if I exhaled it like the smoke of a burning cigarette. I'm screwed. I edge towards the end of the seat, giving Michael space, left dumbfounded by his strangely silent presence.

"So, school was conformist today", I muttered, fearfully trying to engage him in conversation without bringing up what happened earlier. It was too embarrassing. I was too late. I missed my shot.

He tilted his head slightly and nodded as he tucked a straying curl behind his ear. "Super conformist. Just another day. I pretty much forgot everything that happened". He seemed to ramble on and on, tripping over his words and looking for a way to excuse his actions from earlier from my memory.

We continued our awkward tense conversation until we reached Michael's stop. He lived in a far nicer neighborhood than I did, though I wondered if he ever really noticed. He got up and carefully stepped over me and walked off the bus towards his home, just like everyday. I keep staring after him. I take in the view over and over. How he held his head high with each step he took. His ever impassive expression striking fear into the heart of each conformist as he passed their seat. As he faded from my view off of the bus, I grabbed my bag, making a not so graceful run towards the door. I decide to get off at Michael's stop. Withdrawal has left my heart aching for him.

"Michael wait up!" I shouted after him with the unimpressive excitement of a child, and a Gothic image shattering smile I know I shouldn't have on my face. As he turns around, shock brightened Michael's eyes. I wish I knew if it was good or bad shock. I didn't get a chance to see. The last thing I saw in my haste to run to him, was the cool grey concrete, as I tripped on my shoelaces and made my ungraceful fall to the earth.


End file.
